Darrell Schweitzer: Full MoonCity

The husband’s head jerked up, and, even though she wasn’t the target, Mel took an instinctive step back.

“She knows how I feel,” he said softly. “I feel like she does. I don’t like it. I didn’t ask for it to happen. I want to be a man all the time, not lose control, lose myself, when the moon is full.” He sneered suddenly. “You like it?”

The other man shrugged. “Like, dislike, it just is. It’s part of who I am. I don’t have a problem with that.”

“No problem. Well, aren’t you the lucky one.” He moved suddenly in his seat as if about to rise. “It’s a disease, pea-brain! And I don’t accept that some disease is part of me-like my-my nose. I mean, if my nose was deformed, like a pig’s snout, I wouldn’t feel like, oh, I got no problem, that’s just me-hell, I’d go to a doctor and get it fixed! Who wouldn’t?”

“So go to a doctor.”

“You think I haven’t? Seriously, you think a doctor can fix what we’ve got?”

“I already told you. I don’t think it needs fixing.”

“The doctors think it’s in our heads. In my head. They think I’m crazy. I go to the doctor, and all he can do is give me pills, make me sleepy and dumb-they don’t change anything. They just make me feel stupid. I tried to show him-”

“You tried?”

The other man made a low groaning sound. “I showed him, all right? I got him to check me into a hospital and keep me overnight.”

There was a collective catching of the breath. The dirty man tensed, and for a moment Mel, her skin tingling, thought he would attack his adversary. Then he relaxed a little and slowly, slowly shook his head. “Man, you are… something else.”

“But the doctor didn’t think so. Still thinks I’m crazy. He offered to run some tests-which by the way my insurance wouldn’t cover-but all he could advise was I should keep taking the happy pills and also talk to a psychiatrist.”

“None so blind as he who will not see,” said his wife.

She must have seen, thought Mel, breathless. She must watch her husband transform from man into wolf every single month. And still she thought it not a wonder but a disability. But how could she appreciate what she had in him if he didn’t want it? And how could a doctor not realize what he was seeing? She supposed there must be people, even very smart people, who denied the evidence of their senses if it conflicted with what was supposed to be possible. How else could werewolves have survived into modern times without being recognized by science?

The dirty man shrugged. “My advice to you-”

“I don’t want your stupid advice,” the married man snapped back. “All I want-the only reason we came here tonight-is to hear somebody say there is a way out, there is a cure.” He swiveled around in his chair to fix his gaze on Mel. She tried not to flinch. “I thought you were talking in code,” he said. “Your ads. First you say you wanted to join a pack, then you advertise this support group.”

“Lyncanthropy,” said the Chihuahua, her mouth twisting into a smile that might have been pained, or mocking.

“That, too. A medical term, right? So, see, I thought there might be a drug, a new drug, to repress the symptoms-maybe even gene therapy…?”

Mel stood frozen, with no idea of what to say. It turned out her lack of response said it all.

“No,” he said flatly, as his expression changed, blood shining dully in his cheeks. “So obvious-what you are-stupid of me-I see now.”

His wife was already standing. He got up, too, and they left without another word. The single woman went after them, and then the other couple. Only the two single men remained.

Mel looked at them, wanting to pass off the defection of the others with some light comment, but afraid. She’d given herself away. Judging from the woman’s reaction, lycanthropy was not a term they used among themselves. And somehow pack was wrong, too, and maybe even werewolf. What did they call themselves? She tried to get some clue from the argument she’d witnessed, running it back through her head, but she’d been silent too long; she must have seemed utterly defeated, with nothing more to say, because the dirty man got up to go.

“Wait!” she called out. “Please don’t leave.”

He stopped and looked at her. She saw, beneath the grease and dirt and stubble that he might be quite attractive, and was spurred to make an effort. “I’m not… what he thought. And… maybe I did it wrong, the way I proposed this meeting and all, but I still… there’s a good reason for it,” she went on, desperately improvising. “I’d really like to talk to you. Can we just talk?”

His eyes bored into hers until she felt dizzy. “Okay,” he said, and stood there, relaxed, light on his feet, arms loose at his sides, waiting.

“Well… want to go for a drink somewhere?”

He shook his head, and her heart plummeted. But he plucked at his filthy T-shirt and smiled wryly. “I’m not fit for human company now. I came here straight from fixing my truck. I should have cleaned up first, but I was running late. We could make it another night.”

Her heart gave a hopeful leap. “Fine, yes, let’s. When?”

“Uh… how about Tuesday?”

She knew-they both knew-that would be the night of the full moon. Her mouth dried. She could only stare back at him with widening eyes and nod her head.

“All right. You like barbecue?”

“Sure.”

“Goode Company, on Kirby…”

“I know it.”

It was her favorite place for a sliced beef sandwich, even if it was always crowded at lunch. It was well inside the Loop, not far from where she worked. She wondered if that was home territory for him, or-deliberately? -not.

“Five-thirty all right with you?”

That would give him plenty of time to get far away from her after they’d eaten, long before the moon would rise, if he decided he couldn’t trust her. Fair enough. She nodded again.

“See you then,” he said. She stood watching the space where he’d been until a small sound reminded her she wasn’t alone.

The overweight young man in the short-sleeved white shirt stood up, his red lips stretched into a predatory smile. “I’ll take you up on that drink, right now,” he said. “I’d like to talk.”

She didn’t want to, but she made herself smile back in a friendly way.

“There’s coffee here,” she pointed out.

He wrinkled his nose. “Bet it’s nasty. Anyway, I’d rather have something cold. There’s a TGIF just off the feeder, how about that?”

“All right…”

“ Devon. I’m Devon.”

“I’m Mel.” They walked out together.

“What’s that short for, Melanie? Melissa? Melinda? No? Um, Okay, let me think. Melody? Melanctha?”

As they exited the building into the parking lot, he abandoned his guesses to suggest it would be a sensible, gas-saving measure to go in one car. “I have to swing back this way anyway on my way home.”

“Well, I don’t,” she said. “And I’m not leaving my ride.” She put on her helmet as she spoke, and indicated her Honda Nighthawk. “Meet you at Friday’s.”

TGIFs could be crowded and noisy at certain times, but a quarter to nine on a Thursday night was not one of them. Devon ordered a beer and a plate of nachos, and pressed her to have a specialty cocktail when she said she didn’t like beer, but she stuck to iced tea.

“Worried you might get drunk? Scared I might take advantage of you?” He gave her a loose-lipped leer. “You got a long way to go? I’d be happy to drive you home.”

“No thanks.” What a creep. She couldn’t see herself putting up with this human personality even if he did turn into a wolf once a month, but he let fall various comments that made her feel sure he was another supernatural groupie, like herself. She had no idea if he believed her claim to be a werewolf, or if it was enough for him that she was female and hadn’t actually run away screaming.